The Battle of Southtown
by Miguel O'Hanlon
Summary: An army without a nation infiltrates and conquers the city of Southtown. Ralf Jones, Clark Steel, and Leona Heidern are expected to liberate the city, with the help of the KOF participants who have been inexplicably drawn into the conflict.
1. Prologue, part 1 Soldiers of Fortune

The Battle of Southtown  
or  
The Gaia Project  
  
A King of Fighters story  
  
Prologue, part 1- Soldiers of Fortune  
  
War is an ugly, inevitable thing. War is what happens when disputes can never be settled. It happens when two sides feel so strongly about a matter that they feel that they have to die for their cause. It is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, perhaps second in dread only to death. One can argue that war should probably be before death among the horseman. After all, war begets death. War also begets famine and pestilence, which in turn beget death. It is the nadir of human civilization, but sometimes, the nadir must be reached before the zenith can be sighted. Most of the time, the zenith will never be in sight. War destroys lives, families, homes, and sanity. It will always bring out the blackest aspect of humanity, with very few exceptions. One of the exceptions was riding in a Russian-made Hind troop transport helicopter, ready to enter into the jaws of hell itself, for a cause he didn't care about. It was war, and it was paying Ralf Jones.  
He was currently adjusting the sights on his AKS-74U assault rifle, perched precariously in the open pod door bay of the helicopter as it sped from an inky night into a man-made nightmare. He was following a ritual he had maintained for the last 15 years before he would ever go into combat. As he looked around the interior of the Hind, he could see two other soldiers like himself readying for the imminent dip into the inferno.  
Blue-haired Leona Heidern would always sit in a corner, staring blankly ahead and draw her knees up into her chest, all the while fiddling with a blade on a ribbon. She would stay in that same position without so much as blinking an eye for 10 minutes before she would finally gather her long, thick hair into a rugged ponytail and tie it back with the ribbon. After that, she'd take a small black wool-knit cap and tuck her giveaway hair underneath. It never changed for as long as he, Ralf, and Leona had fought together.  
His blood brother Clark Steel had a ritual that was a little simpler. He would simply take his prized sunglasses and pour water over the lenses. Then, he would wipe the water clean and either put the sunglasses on his face or put them in his right chest pocket. This was determinant on whether or not it was dark. If it was dark, the sunglasses always went into the chest pocket.  
Ralf had the complex ritual. He would take all of his weapons and lay them out in front of him. Then he would take whatever blade weapons he had and put them in a specific order into their sheaths. He always kept one on his right hip, another on his left ankle, and a butterfly knife in his back pocket. He would then take whatever guns he had; always two side arms and a primary weapon and methodically adjust the sights. Then he would load bullets slowly into each magazine before sticking them into his ammo belt. Finally, he would remove his familiar red and green bandanna, fold it neatly, and put it into one of his pockets. In its place, he would don a jet-black bandanna.  
This mission would be carried out in the dead of night, amid a background concerto of sporadic artillery fire coming from in and around the Chechen city of Grozny, going back and forth between the Russian Army that encircled and held parts of the city, and the Chechen rebels that were holding out in the very heart. Even against the loud whirring helicopter blades, Ralf could still hear the small arms fire reverberating on the ground level, a reminder of the ferocious fighting going on. Within a few minutes, Ralf knew the gunfire would become even more furious. It was all part of the plan.  
Ralf stood, fully decked out in black camouflage, his rifle strapped to his chest; night vision goggles perched on his head. Leona and Clark, equipped identically to Ralf, stood too, knowing what was about to happen.  
"Alright, circle up," he said authoritatively. Leona and Clark complied. Right as they crouched in the center of the passenger bay, the pilot stuck his head back.  
"ETA 5 minutes," said the pilot, before disappearing into the cockpit. Ralf nodded.  
"Right, this'll be comprehensive and educational," said Ralf dryly. "You know exactly why we're here." Ralf looked at Leona, expecting some sort of response.  
Leona began. "We came here with a company of 100 by request of the Russians to be of further help to liquidate the Chechen threat in Grozny. As of right now, we have lost 17 dead and 60 wounded, not to mention the 9 that were captured by the insurgents three days ago. The Ikari Mercenary Agency never leaves a comrade behind."  
"We know that the insurgents hold a perimeter around the city center about 6 square kilometers," added Clark in his gruff midwestern twang. "Our allies, well, they haven't been able to crack through the Chechen defenses."  
"The Chechen perimeter hinges on four points," continued Leona in her cold, husky tone. "In the southwest they hold the police station. East, they hold a stadium. In the northeast, they have the town square. However, the strongpoint lies in the center of the perimeter, the courthouse. It is there that the captives are being held."  
"So," interjected Ralf, "we're gonna fast rope about a quarter click from the stadium and bypass it toward the south. From there, we double time into the center, avoiding any opposition along the way. We can't afford to get into a firefight; their reinforcements would overwhelm us. Stealth is the key then."  
Ralf pulled a small blueprint from his chest pocket. This was the lay out for the courthouse. "The courthouse is heavily guarded by machine gun nests in the streets and snipers from apartment buildings close by. Still, every defense has a weak point, and this is no exception." He pointed to the sub-level section of the blue print, and then pointed to a long, narrow tunnel running north south that ended in the bowels of the sub- level.  
"This is a service tunnel that runs a kilometer underground that links the courthouse and the police station," continued Ralf. He pulled another folded paper from his chest pocket, but this was a municipal map of Grozny. "There are three ways to access the tunnel, either from the station, the courthouse, or from a small checkpoint halfway between. We'll infiltrate the tunnel through that checkpoint and from there we can proceed into the courthouse. We have a 3-hour window to infiltrate the courthouse, rescue the hostages, and triple time to the EZ, which is this building about three blocks away. At that point, the Russians are launching a full assault against the perimeter, which will make it even harder for us to get to the EZ with scrambling insurgents heading to their positions. We'll hold the EZ at all costs until the evac copter comes."  
He looked around at his teammates and saw the looks of resignation on their faces. It wasn't resignation to death, but to duty. This wasn't the first time the three warriors carried out a rescue mission, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. However, there was a sense of dread that hung over all three of them like a storm cloud ready to spill its contents onto an unsuspecting world.  
"ETA minus 30 seconds!" barked the pilot once again. "God be with you!"  
Ralf sighed heavily, then threw on a huge smile and flashed thumbs up to his compatriots. Clark grinned back and flashed his own thumb up. Leona, ever the stoic member of the team, maintained her stony face, but her eyes flashed bemusedly. She, unlike Ralf and Clark, never seemed to have any time for humor, however small it may be, before a mission. She knew it was their way to deal with pressure, unlike hers, which was to become a virtual gargoyle. Still, since she joined the two, humor seemed to leak into her otherwise stern demeanor.  
All three fixed their NVGs in front of their eyes and took positions by the pod bay doors. Ralf stood alone on one side, Leona and Clark on the other. Three lines of rope spooled downwards towards a dark abyss from the top of the pod bay door. All three adjusted their rope gloves before awaiting their signal.  
It was a tense 30 seconds that seemed to them to take longer. Neither of them was rushing to taste combat, but they were all anxious to get out of the steel trap that was transporting them to work. They looked to their right, at a red and green light. The red part was currently lit; anytime, the green would come, and that would enable the Ikari Warriors to slide down the rope and to begin their mission.  
The light came on and Ralf, Clark, and Leona promptly began another night at the office.  
They hit the ground sooner than they expected; the pilot was considerate enough to show some backbone and get close to ground level. As soon as they were down, they could hear the Hind speeding away before it had a chance of getting shot down. Ralf couldn't blame the pilot, seeing as how the Russians had already lost 30 gun ships to anti-air missiles. In fact, Ralf could actually see the twisted, burned remains of what had once been a transport helicopter just beyond the sights of his rifle. He motioned to his left, and his partners immediately followed his lead. They leaned against a building wall, with Leona in between her two massive teammates.  
Leona was good at concealing her emotions, which was a good thing at the moment. Inside, she was absolutely quaking and she only knew one reason why. Despite the countless missions she had completed, this was to be only her third taste of urban combat, and she was dreading it. Her very first time had been one of her first missions as an Ikari Warrior, and it almost resulted in her death from a sniper's bullet. The second time, she had been cut off and surrounded on the ground level. Ralf and Clark had to fight their way to the beleaguered Leona, who had suffered two wounds to her left leg and another that went through her neck, miraculously missing her vital blood vessels and her spinal cord somehow.  
However, there was something else about the shattered remnants of the Chechen city that frightened her. She sensed something would happen, but couldn't figure out what. And not knowing was galling.  
The team had been using walls as cover and guides while they traversed the ghost town. They advanced in absolute silence, responding only to the different hand signals from Clark, the point man. Every once and a while, they circled up so Ralf could navigate.  
He took out a tiny compass and gazed hard at it. He uttered a nearly inaudible "Shit!" before he motioned to Clark to take the rear. At once, their steady pace increased into a silent jog, and then into sporadic sprints from cover to cover. They had gone to far south and they were behind their timetable.  
He led them through an alleyway and into a wide boulevard, where he made a dead stop. He turned and held up four fingers before pointing to Leona. To her, he made a strangling gesture. Leona knew exactly what he meant. She traded places with her leader and took position at the corner, peering cautiously around.  
She saw four guerillas patrolling either side of the boulevard, heading away from her position. If she kept as quiet as the grave, the patrol would never know that a killer was about to strike them from behind. And for Leona, there was never any "if". Leona was an expert at stalking. Quiet was her specialty.  
Leona went around the corner, while Ralf immediately took up a prone covering position. Clark stood and provided his cover. Should Leona alert any of the patrol to her being there, they were standing by to provide four well-aimed bullets.  
She stole quietly after the nearest guerilla, drawing her combat knife from her ankle. She held it tightly in her right hand, ready to slice through anyone's throat. Leona took extremely careful steps, forcing herself to breathe as quietly as possible. In a few seconds, she was right behind her target.  
Leona stood up and with her left hand, covered her target's mouth and nose. In one merciful motion, she sliced through his throat as easily as she was cutting steak. The man died instantly, and Leona quietly laid him on the pavement. She repeated this process once more before dashing across the street to eliminate the other two.  
Ralf and Clark moved from their positions and trained their silenced rifles on the guerillas. Ideally, Leona would kill them as well, but they knew that there was every possibility that the patrol would turn around and end up facing a knife-wielding Leona.  
As Leona approached her next target, she heard the ominous crunching of broken glass behind her. Her eyes were fixed on the guerillas in front of her, who whipped around and pointed their Kalashnikovs at her. In a split-second, she saw them fall dead, and she didn't need to figure out who had shot them. She immediately dropped her knife and spun around, drawing her rifle in the process. Ralf and Clark were on her left, rifles trained in the same direction as hers.  
They heard more glass crunching ahead of them. Clark's finger was getting uncomfortably itchy. Despite the obvious sounds of war all around, the crunching glass dominated the ears. Ralf began to see what was making the sound.  
It was a man walking slowly up the middle of the boulevard. He appeared to be unarmed, but the trio was taking no chances. They advanced slowly towards him, rifles trained at his chest. There was too much risk of missing a headshot. A shot to the chest was much safer.  
The man stopped about 20 meters from Ralf, who was in front. Clark was behind him a few paces, but to the right of Ralf. Leona was on the other side of the street. The man was still too far away to be able to make out what he looked like, but he appeared to be a monster of a man. He stood with his massive arms sticking out slightly as if he was purposely trying to flex them. He appeared to be wearing a long, flowing coat of some sort, and on his head was a wide-brimmed hat. Through the goggles, he appeared to be even whiter than how most people looked. Ralf thought back to the sense of foreboding he had on the helicopter. Was this it?  
For an agonizingly long time, the man stood his ground menacingly. Sweat rolled down Ralf's face. Leona's gun quavered a bit. Clark's finger was on the trigger.  
The man suddenly threw his coat open and reached for something. The mercenaries instantly opened fire.  
Ralf grinned. 'What sort of moron tries to pull something on three people who're already aiming something at him?'  
The man staggered a bit, but didn't fall. Instead, he finished pulling out whatever he had and aimed.  
Three rifles immediately fell to the ground. The mercenaries stood, shocked and still. The man put back his weapon, closed his coat, and proceeded to walk menacingly towards the mercenaries. He stopped after 5 paces, threw his head back, and laughed out loud with a deep, booming voice.  
Ralf tore his goggles off; he figured he could see the man by now. He couldn't. The man looked even more menacing when not covered in the spectral light seen through the goggles.  
The man ceased to laugh, and threw his fists up towards his face. He motioned with one hand: come here. Discipline was thrown out the window, and three Ikari  
  
Warriors rushed forward. 


	2. Prologue, part 2 Extraction

Prologue, part 2- Extraction  
  
Leona was out ahead of her teammates, running impossibly close to the ground and coming up quickly onto the mystery man. She brought her left arm up towards her right shoulder, her hand and fingers as rigid as a board. This was the set up for one of her techniques, Grand Saber. She hoped to surprise her adversary with such a strong initial attack. Even if he blocked, she knew Ralf and Clark were right behind her. He'd never have enough time to defend himself against one of their grapple techniques.  
The man stood his ground. Leona focused everything into this attack, and as she was running, everything around her seemed to melt into oblivion. It was like tunnel vision, and this man was the only thing at the end of the tunnel. She would wait until the last possible moment to attack.  
That last possible moment came and Leona slashed downwards. She struck nothing but air.  
'Impossible!' she shouted inwardly. Her momentum carried her beyond the point of attack and she began to skid to a halt. That was when she felt a titanic blow land just below the back of her neck. Grand Saber always left her perilously off-balance, and this blow sent her hurtling headfirst into the pavement.  
"Oh shit!"  
Ralf caught a massive boot to the jaw. The very next split-second, he was lying dazed on the deck. Clark was now vulnerable to this monster.  
He was stopped dead in his tracks by the monster's hand. It slammed hard into his throat and as easily as raising his finger, the man lifted Clark at least a foot off the ground. At this point, Clark realized he was not facing any ordinary man. He, Clark, was 6'5" and weighed close to 240 lbs. This man could have been Goliath and still shouldn't have been able to lift Clark that easily with one hand.  
Clark desperately chopped at the branch-like arm with both hands. He may as well have been chopping at a steel girder; this arm was not going to move for anything. Clark couldn't do anything else. It was either fight however he could at the moment, or get his candle snuffed quietly.  
The man began to laugh quietly again. Clark rose helplessly higher, still in just the one hand. He tried to get a better look at his attacker's face, but it was well hidden underneath the wide-brimmed hat. Then he felt an almighty lurch, and the iron grip around his neck loosen. He looked down, and saw Ralf had plowed into the man's considerable torso. His right shoulder was firmly entrenched into what must have been rock solid muscle. His arms were locked around the lower back and his legs churning hard, trying vainly to drive a mountain into the ground.  
Meanwhile, Leona was slowly getting up from her brutal tumble, only to jump right back into the fray. The man's back was facing her, but she knew even it wasn't that vulnerable. Without thinking, she leaped onto the man's back and locked her arms around his neck in a chokehold.  
Ralf disengaged from his tackle, only to pump himself forward once more, this time into the man's knees. This time, the man fully let go of the dangling Clark and began to topple forward. All three mercenaries could literally feel the ground shudder from the impact of the man. Ralf held on for dear life onto the man's legs, fearing he would get up as easily as he had swatted Leona away earlier.  
Clark rolled sideways and jumped up as fast as he could. Ralf and Leona provided him with an opening. As soon as he got to his feet, he went down again, but this time led his elbow into the man's back.  
"AAAARRRRRGGGHHHHH!" came the roar. The man forced his arms into the ground and popped himself up like a pneumatic spring. Ralf, Clark, and Leona hung onto him like monkeys. He punched downwards and connected squarely with the back of Clark's head, instantly dispatching him face first into the pavement. He then reached behind him and tore Leona off his back. In the same fluid motion, he flung her over his own head into a brick wall. She hit the wall with enough force to keep her temporarily stuck in the crater she made before sliding down headfirst. The man then turned his attention to Ralf. But Ralf wasn't at his knees.  
At that instant, Ralf flew upwards, arms behind him, and felt his shoulder connect squarely with a big face. The man staggered backwards, holding his jaw, but was immediately struck by another blow, this time a Blitzkrieg Punch coming out of the air and into his chest.  
Ralf followed his attack to the very end, striking the ground before jumping backwards. He landed with his sidearm drawn, and the man a safe distance away from him. He cocked the hammer back. If the man made a sudden movement, the hair trigger would promptly blow him away.  
"Freeze!!" bellowed Ralf, his voice resonating through the night air. He had his .45 aimed at the head this time. Following the fight, he doubted whether a shot to the chest would have enough stopping power, even at the almost point blank distance. "Who the hell are you?!"  
Ralf heard two more side arms come up. Leona and Clark were back in commission. "You guys alright?"  
"We'll live," Leona answered. "He probably won't." she added dryly.  
Once again, the man's baritone laugh reached their ears. "I wouldn't be too sure about that," he said, a sneer forming on his mouth. He tore his hat off and flung it to the ground, finally revealing his face.  
He was a black man, and judging by his accent, probably from the American south. His head was shaved cleanly bald. His face was long, ending in an impossibly square, sturdy chin. His nose was flat and broken, probably from the many fights this man had undoubtedly got into. However, the most distinct feature was his eyes. Both were a deep brown, but his left eye had no pupil. Even still, Ralf figured he might not be blind out of that eye.  
"I'll ask you once again," Ralf said, clearly irritated. "Who the hell are you and why are you here?" Ralf's voice dripped with authority. When he sounded like this, Clark knew it was unwise to piss him off, even if the one about to piss him off was bigger and possibly more than dangerous than he was.  
Silence prevailed amidst the din of the loudening war being raged all around. The monster man stood his ground, defiant of the orders from a man aiming a gun at his head. Clark didn't like this. He felt the man might have another card up his sleeve. He glanced sideways at Leona, noticing she was visibly shaken. Her aim looked shaky, her eyes bloodshot.  
The silence was broken by a whining sound ripping through the air and slowly becoming louder and louder by the second. It was followed immediately by identical sounds. Ralf released his steely glare to look around him, and when he looked back at the man, he was laughing once again, this time with his hand on his forehead.  
"I suggest you run, little man."  
Ralf gave a puzzled expression, followed by one of utter horror. He put his gun back. "Duck and cover!!" he yelled, running away from his position and motioning Clark and Leona to do otherwise. Clark did as he was told, but Leona stood rooted to her spot, sweat rolling down her face as if someone threw water in her face. Her face was one of fear and incomprehension.  
"Leona, move it! Now!" Ralf screamed.  
She shook her head. "Th-th-that man..." she stammered. "He...he...he..."  
"We don't have time for this!" He said, now making a beeline for Leona. He grabbed her in mid-stride and ran with a petrified Leona over his shoulder.  
The whining got louder, then ended with a deafening "BOOOOOMMM!!" The concussive forces of what he now ascertained to be artillery shells landing all around him threw Ralf forward. He rolled with the fall and kept going, Leona still in tow. Clark was way ahead of him.  
Ralf sprinted hard, not caring about the destruction the shells were causing all around. It wasn't a big deal for him. He'd had shells blowing up around him for half his life. It was easy for him to ignore the shell that blew up two meters behind him, or the shell that decimated a building on his right. He just kept running until the explosions were several hundred meters behind. Clark had made a left and run down a small street before stopping and hugging a wall on his left. Ralf did likewise, and set Leona onto her feet.  
They didn't really need to catch their breath, but no word was spoken until Ralf broke the silence with a confused muttered, "What the hell?"  
"I reckon someone knew we were gonna be there," said Clark matter-of- factly, simultaneously drawing his sidearm and scanning down the street.  
"Yeah, no shit," said Ralf, the dry resentment only so obvious in his words. "I wanna know the hell that giant bastard was, 'cause he definitely knew where we were gonna be."  
Leona was slowly recovering from her momentary paralysis, her gun still tightly gripped in her hand. "I also wanna know," Ralf, continued, turning to his teammate, "what made you act the way you did. It sure as hell wasn't combat nerves. I'll bet my ass that our friend back there had something to do with it." He looked right into Leona's eyes. It wasn't a reprimanding look, just one of concern. Ralf knew there really wasn't any need to chew her out. The circumstances had been unusual, and Ralf knew it. He felt something peculiar about that man, but couldn't put his finger on what it was. He figured that odd sense must have affected Leona worse. The real question was why.  
Leona spoke softly. "I don't know, sir. I felt something. Something familiar. I didn't like it." She turned away, maintaining her trademark stoic expression. Ralf knew better than that. He knew something was bothering her immensely, but he decided not to press the issue. Right now, he needed to abort the mission. They had an extremely close call, not to mention the fact that they had lost their primary weapons. Handguns would not be sufficient in this situation.  
"Clark, radio the chopper to the EZ. We're aborting this fucked up mission. We'll get the hostages tomorrow night," said Ralf as he was checking his .45. Clark pulled out a tiny radio strapped onto his belt.  
"Hotel, hotel, we're pulling out, I repeat, we're pulling out. Mission is a no go, I repeat, no go. Pick us up at EZ, over."  
The response came back. "Ground team, roger that. Expected time of arrival is 30 minutes, I repeat, 30 minutes. Get your asses in gear, over."  
Clark smirked at the radio. "Smart-ass," he muttered.  
Ralf snickered, and then checked his map and compass. "Lucky us. The yellow brick road to the EZ is only a half click that way," Ralf pointed east. "We go right now and we can still catch the game," he finished sarcastically.  
The three shaken, but still alive, mercenaries began heading east. The EZ was a small soccer field. It was a horrible place to evacuate, seeing as how there was nearly no cover available. Thankfully, they had come across a small Chechen patrol on the way, and by means readily available at their disposable, were able to procure 3 old AK-47s and some ammo. It was a sorry rifle, but any rifle was preferred to any sidearm in extreme combat situations.  
As the soccer field was in view, Leona, the point, stopped abruptly and took cover in a pile of rubble. By now, the sun was beginning to come up, and the daylight was going to compromise them even more, but this wasn't why Leona stopped.  
"Look," she said simply, pointing at the soccer field.  
There were nine bodies lying face down all around the field, and judging by their black uniforms, it was obvious who they were.  
"Bastards!" exclaimed Clark quietly. "Goddamn cowards!"  
"Well, we found the hostages," Ralf deadpanned. "Shit, let's go, we don't have a choice. Damn it, I had a feeling something like this'd happen."  
The mercenaries cautiously approached the bodies, rifles covering them despite the fact they were dead. Then again, one didn't take chances in this line of work. Ralf kicked one body over onto its back. "Aww, fuck me!" he swore loudly.  
The body was badly decomposing, and smelled like a combination of vomit and rotting vegetables. In one instant, Ralf immediately came to a conclusion.  
"This is a trap," he said quietly. "Someone killed our hostages a while ago and left 'em here. Someone knew we were gonna be here. Someone is a goddamn spy!" he thundered angrily. "Shit! And they're gonna be here soon. Get their tags, and get ready for an assault. This is officially a hot extraction."  
The dog tags were gathered up, and the mercenaries formed a morbid defensive square made up of the bodies of their former comrades. Out in the open, there was no other cover.  
They lay prone, rifles trained in three triangular directions, awaiting the onslaught. If the field had one advantage, it was that they could see anyone who was coming.  
The promised onslaught seemed to fail to materialize before all three of them heard the reassuring whirring of helicopter blades in the distance, coming to take them away from a seriously Snafu'd mission. They waited in earnest, the helicopter coming within 1000 meters, then 500, then 300, then hovering above them and ready to touch down. Right when it touched down, Leona fired three shots. Three Chechens immediately fell where they had once been standing. The assault was coming late.  
All around them, Chechens were charging wildly at their position, getting picked off by the expert marksmanship of Ralf, Clark, and Leona. As the helicopter touched down behind them, Ralf ordered Clark and Leona to get inside. He would provide the covering fire.  
Ralf wasted at least 5 more Chechens before he too piled into the copter and it sped upwards and away. The Chechens fired wildly in the sky, their bullets occasionally careening off the iron skin. Clark leaned out of the chopper and fired one shot. One Chechen fell dead on the spot. As the chopper flew back towards safety, the three Ikari Warriors went to their respective corners of the holding bay and remained silent for the entire trip. This mission, they quietly agreed, never happened.  
  
"Right on time," said the giant man to himself as he casually observed the barrage of artillery creating a buffer between himself and the three whelps who he had been fighting with. He walked away, certain that no one would bother him. After all, he had a guardian angel perched on a building with a high-powered sniper rifle watching his back.  
As the sun was beginning to dawn on the dying city of Grozny, the giant man stood on top of a building with his guardian angel.  
"How did they do?" asked the angel coldly in a thick Russian accent.  
"Better than I thought, Vikodin, better than I thought."  
The angel, now known as Vikodin, sneered. "The men are supposed to be legends in the mercenary underground. They're formidable King of Fighters competitors. Are you trying to tell me that you pretty much had your way with them?"  
The giant shook his head. "They were tough, especially together. They're not like other fighters, who seem intent to wait their turn. I had all three of them on me at once. Then again, it must be the soldier inside them. They realized the situation at hand and adapted. If they get caught up in the plan, we'll have a tough time with them."  
Vikodin scowled. "The matriarch would be displeased if that were to happen."  
"I seemed to scare the shit out of the girl though," added the giant. "Then again, we've been having that effect on the other ones as well. Interesting. That could be an advantage."  
"It is an advantage," said the Russian. "The Todo girl acted the same way with me. It made my job much easier. However, Thompson, I'm disappointed you didn't capture this one."  
Thompson shook his head. "The matriarch wants that particular one later. I don't know why. She said that she needs a certain six for the very last, but I don't know exactly why. But I guess it's not our place to decide what to do."  
"No, it is not. Well then, Thompson, if you're done here, I'll be on my way. I'll see you in Southtown."  
Thompson smiled wickedly. "Hmmmmph. Southtown, huh? We've been waiting too long before we all got a crack at Southtown. I'm tingling at the thought of our final victory." 


	3. Ch1 First Assignment

Yeah, I know I forgot to add a disclaimer earlier, so here it is. I might put one in every other chapter, seeing as how I don't want to clutter my pages with just legal talk. So here it is. I do not own any of the SNK- Playmore characters, the City of Southtown, or any of the elements that come from any of the games that I am reinterpreting in my story. Any fictional (that means my original) characters that bear any resemblance to anyone are purely coincidental. I do not wish to offend anyone, and if I do, either stop reading, or tell me in a review. However, I do request that you intelligently state what your complaint is, and I will do my best to answer why I have taken that particular route of creative intent.  
  
Remember, this is only a figment of my imagination. What happens in my story is never meant to offend anyone, but is meant to be provocative and thoughtful. Some of your favorite characters might not turn out the way you would like them to, but that is in no sense out of spite, only an artistic impression. Once again, if you have an issue that you would like to discuss, feel free to send me a non-flame, intelligent critique in the reviews, or e-mail me at Salvy_Mic@arashcuzi.com. Without further ado, I welcome you into the Battle of Southtown...  
  
Ch.1- New Assignment  
  
Amongst the Ikari mercenaries, Grozny had become a byword for disaster. Never before had a detachment of top-quality mercenaries suffered such a high percentage of casualties on any assignment. Out of a company of exactly 100 contracted men and women, soldiers trained to the highest possible degree, 22 had been killed in action, with a further 9 being killed in captivity, and 5 more dying as a result of wounds. On top of that, a staggering 60 had been "only" wounded. That meant only four operatives came back without a scratch, and the fact that three of them were Ralf, Clark, and Leona didn't go over too well with the head of the agency. The other one that somehow didn't become a casualty was a rookie, and he was still twitching uncontrollably. In other words, despite the fact that the Russians eventually took the city, the deployment of the Ikaris was a complete failure in the eyes of the indomitable Ikari commander, Heidern.  
  
The responsibility of facing the wrath of the commander fell squarely on the broad shoulders of Ralf Jones, as it always did. As it was, he was sitting outside of Heidern's office, regaled in full Ikari dress uniform. That consisted of olive drab dress pants matching an olive drab jacket. A white dress shirt was underneath the jacket, and tied around the collar was the standard issue black tie. Ralf's shoes were immaculately shined and polished to the point that he could have tidied his hair up simply by looking down. A black beret was perched snugly on his head, going towards the right. On his chest, Ralf wore numerous badges, medals, and ribbons from around the world, signifying the ungodly number of campaigns the weary warrior had participated in over his 18-year career with the Ikari mercenaries. The most prominent of those was the Medal of Valor awarded to him by the President of the United States himself, in secret, for nearly single-handedly protecting the lives of the President and his family overseas. Ralf may not have been officially a U.S. citizen, but he still considered himself an American, and having such an honor bestowed upon him by the President meant more than he could think to him.  
  
Ralf was consumed in his own thoughts at the moment, knowing that all of his badges would mean nothing when he had to face his CO. Not that it mattered being torn into, what hurt Ralf the most at that moment was the fact that he had allowed so many of his comrades to die needlessly in what essentially was a conflict with no lasting impression on the world. As important as the war in Chechnya may have been to the Russians, and undoubtedly the Chechens, on the grand scale of things, it would have no effect whatsoever on world events. Yet here he was, once again, alive and well.  
  
"Jones," came the firm voice through the oak door, "come in."  
  
Ralf obliged and strode through the door at attention, stopping in the very middle of Heidern's office. Usually, Ralf would be in here on more casual terms, and he would have observed the giant bookcases on each wall brimming with books on combat, history, and science. He would have admired the dark wood floors, or the mahogany desk with models of tanks and airplanes atop it. He would have been looking at the cases behind the desk, one filled with rare guns, the other with antique knives. Not this time. Ralf stood rooted at attention, his eyes fixed straight ahead, not looking at anything. Not even looking at Heidern.  
  
Heidern struck an imposing figure, standing with his back facing the middle of the room, both hands behind his back, staring out his window. His brown hair, dotted with gray, was combed neatly to one side. His own black beret was on his right shoulder. If Ralf looked impressive in his own uniform, he looked downright shabby compared to Heidern, who was wearing an identical uniform. Heidern was completely squared away, His pants perfectly creased, his cuffs ending precisely on his wrists, all his medals pinned impossibly straight, as Ralf noticed when Heidern turned around.  
  
His face was lined with the wrinkles of wisdom and tenacity, its commanding aura amplified further by an eye patch over his right eye. The other eye glared through the statuesque Jones.  
  
"At ease and take a seat," he said, every word dripping with authority. Ralf did as he was told. He knew Heidern was normally a cold, commanding man, but at this moment, that demeanor seemed amplified. On top of that, he was surlier than usual.  
  
"You had exactly 99 other soldiers under your command," he began, not bothering to conceal his anger. "96 are either dead or wounded, with the exception of yourself, Steel, Leona, and the rookie Jarvis. That is unacceptable!!"  
  
Heidern didn't shout, but the quiet, seething way in which he had said 'unacceptable' unnerved Ralf slightly. In all his years, he had never seen the commander that angry that soon.  
  
"Excuses?" asked the commander.  
  
"No sir," replied Ralf simply. Which was true; he had no excuse for why such a debacle had occurred.  
  
"If that's the case, then explain to me how 96 Ikari mercenaries became statistics in a 2-week period. Tell me how you and the other two were led into an ambush. In short, tell me what the hell happened over there that lost me an entire company and has me writing letters home to families explaining that their loved ones fell ingloriously due to contractual obligations."  
  
Ralf told Heidern everything to his knowledge that occurred in Chechnya. A blow-by-blow account of every patrol, sortie, and firefight that occurred. The ill-fated rescue mission that brought nothing to the table and how they had failed to secure the hostages, seeing as how the hostages had been dead for at least 4 days.  
  
Then, Ralf launched into the mysterious giant man that they had encountered during the rescue mission. He described in full detail everything that happened, and most importantly in his mind, the effect that it had had on Leona. At that, Heidern's anger quickly subsided and was replaced by deep thought.  
  
"So the Chechens seemed to know everything in your playbook?"  
  
"Yes sir. I can't begin to tell you how many times I myself had been involved in ambushes and encirclement. I mean, I knew from the beginning of the assignment that it would be tough, seeing as how it would take place in an urban environment against a native force with fanatical tendencies. But they were more organized than I gave them credit for. Opposition was a lot stiffer than what myself and the Russians had predicted. After the rescue mission, I realized there could only have been one other possibility. We had a spy on our hands leaking information to the enemy somehow. If that's the case, there are exactly 100 suspects, including Clark, Leona, and myself. If you'll allow me the liberty to make exclusions, there are now 61 possible suspects."  
  
"Are you trying to tell me that you request an investigation?"  
  
"In so many words, sir, yes, I do request an investigation."  
  
Heidern started pacing behind his desk. "Request accepted. It doesn't seem as if this is entirely your fault. In the meanwhile, after this funeral, I want you, Clark, and Leona back in here. I have another assignment for you three in specific and upon hearing your account, I think it might be of personal interest for you. Dismissed."  
  
Ralf stood, saluted, and marched back out of the office, leaving Heidern to brood alone once again in his office. He had feigned his natural stern demeanor for once, hiding the apprehension that he felt in his gut upon hearing Ralf's report. If his feeling proved correct, he knew that everything he had worked so hard to achieve would come crashing down around his ears. Yet the downfall of his organization was not even the worst that could have happened, and Heidern knew it. He had a bad feeling about this next assignment he was sending his three best on, and when Heidern had a bad feeling, it was usually multiplied exponentially in real life.  
  
A funeral had been held on base for the Ikari mercenaries who had fallen on the field of battle in Chechnya. It was a low-key affair. There were no weeping widows, no crying children, and no real pastors to say the last rites. It had been as best a military funeral as one could hope to put together, made more unusual by the fact that the Ikari mercenary agency was a paramilitary organization to begin with, made up of several different nationalities.  
  
Of the 36 men who had died, 25 of them were Eastern European, mostly from Russia or any of the former Yugoslav republics. 3 were from Latin America, 5 were from Africa, 2 were from the Middle East, and 1 was a former British soldier. They had all gone to Chechnya voluntarily when the Russians had requested 100 mercenaries. The first 97 had signed up at the top of the list. And of the 36 dead, at least 15 of them were under the age of 21.  
  
The funeral had taken about 2 hours, with only any of the Ikari operatives on base in full dress present. Right after, Ralf, Clark, and Leona made their way to Heidern's office, still in full dress uniform.  
  
Heidern left the door of his office open, an alert telling his top three to come in whenever they needed to. They saluted and stood at attention before Heidern said, "At ease."  
  
He pushed three manila folders across his desk. "In light of your failings in Chechnya," he began tersely, "I feel this assignment might appeal to the detective inside each and every one of you."  
  
Ralf opened his folder, and the first thing he saw was a large portrait photograph of Kasumi Todo. There were two more pictures behind it, both of Kasumi, but one showed her raking gravel, the other showed her training in a dojo.  
  
"What can you tell me about Miss Todo that I might not know already?"  
  
Leona cleared her throat. "She is Japanese, the daughter of one Ryuhaku Todo. She is one of the foremost practitioners of aikido in the world and a three-time participant in the King of Fighters tournament, once in 1996 and again in 1999 and 2000, each time with the Female Team. She has a personal rivalry with anyone affiliated with Kyokugen Karate, especially with Ryo Sakazaki. She comes in and out of Southtown, but other than that, she stays in Japan, training and studying. On the whole, rather harmless."  
  
"What does Kasumi Todo have to do with our assignment?" Clark asked doubtfully. "Leona said she was harmless."  
  
"Kasumi Todo has everything to do with your assignment," growled Heidern. "Look at the rest of the file."  
  
The three obliged, only to find crime scene photographs of the Todo dojo. It looked unharmed and intact. "Sir...?"  
  
"Kasumi Todo vanished from her dojo a week ago. The operative we had watching her..."  
  
"Operative? Why would we need anyone to watch Kasumi?"  
  
Heidern grew surlier, but faced the window to regain his composure. "After the '96 tournament, I took the liberty of assigning a watcher to each participant of the tournament from that point on. Everyone from Kyo Kusanagi to Mary Ryan to Choi Bounge has a watcher assigned to him or her, someone to monitor their movements. In case one of them decides to...act up. The higher priority the target, the more skilled the watcher assigned. In the cases of potentially dangerous subjects, such as Iori Yagami or Ryuji Hamazaki, the watcher doubles as a sleeper agent, to neutralize the target if need be. For others like Terry Bogard or Athena Asamiya, the watcher is more like a guardian angel. They never make contact with the target, unless it is to save his or her life.  
  
"Now, before Ralf interrupts me again, I was going to say that the operative I assigned to Miss Todo vanished two days ago. From what Ralf told me about the Chechnya mission, I believe we have a mole in our organization. Now look at the last set of photos."  
  
The photos had a lanky man with spiky brown hair conversing with another man with olive skin. They appeared to be talking in a café with Portuguese language menus. Both were wearing sunglasses, but Clark immediately identified them.  
  
"The skinny man is Aidan O' Farrell and the other one is Khalil al-Farzay. Now asides from both being wanted terrorists, what would they have in common to meet publicly in a Portuguese café?"  
  
"That's also what I want you to investigate. There are two more people I need to show you." Heidern slid another picture across the table. That picture was a grainy black and white of an older, thicker man in a car, talking with O' Farrell. "This was taken by one of our operatives in South Korea. Can anyone identify this one?"  
  
"That's Andrei Vikodin," began Leona. "Ex-KGB, ex-Spetsnaz, currently working as a professional killer in the Moscow underworld. Why?"  
  
"Vikodin was sighted by our operative watching Kasumi. Two weeks ago, while O' Farrell was in Korea, Kim Kaphwan's apprentice May Lee disappeared from her home. Meanwhile, Athena Asamiya was on tour in Portugal at the same time al-Farzay was in Portugal. These three men are connected somehow. However, here's the lynchpin."  
  
Heidern slid another photo. Ralf looked at the grainy photo closely before he began to crush it in his hand. "That's him," he said quietly. Upon further scrutiny by Clark and Leona, they saw a giant man in a trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat. "That's the guy from Grozny."  
  
Leona blanched slightly, trying to mask the look on her face with stoicism, but Heidern saw it anyway. He didn't say anything, but gave her an appraising look that cause Leona to look at her feet, trying to hide her face.  
  
"That is Marvin Thompson," Heidern said simply. "He ran an outfit of mercenaries out of the Louisiana bayou that have done extensive work here in Latin America.  
  
"All these men are connected not only through the disappearances, but also by their simultaneous appearances here in Brazil every now and then for the past 10 years. Now, they're heading to Southtown, along with nearly every other known terrorist, guerilla, mercenary, and enforcer. Now unless Geese Howard is holding a seminar for the biggest scumbags on this planet, we don't know why they're going to Southtown.  
  
"Your assignment, then, is to investigate the reason these men are heading to Southtown. You are also to investigate the disappearances of Kasumi Todo and May Lee, as well as to why this guy Thompson was in Chechnya. I have a hunch he may know something about our mole. You're to leave for Southtown in 48 hours. With the exception of Leona, you're dismissed."  
  
Ralf and Clark, puzzled looks on their faces, rose, saluted, and marched straight out of Heidern's office, and back into the sweltering heat of a Brazilian rain forest.  
  
"This shit's getting more and more complicated by the minute," Clark lamented, all the while tearing at his tie and trying to remove his jacket.  
  
Ralf was in thought, walking slowly behind Clark, who seemed to be carrying a conversation with himself thinking Ralf was listening to him. Ralf for once didn't have time to clown around with Clark. He started remembering Leona's odd behavior around that animal Thompson, and remembered from the meeting that O' Farrell and Vikodin were connected to the disappearances of two young female fighters, seemingly without a trace. The wheels in his head seemed to be much faster than the fast pace they would already spin at. Plus, these terrorists were no joke. O' Farrell was a high up within the most militant, fanatical branch of the Irish Republican Army and was responsible for several bombing assassinations in and around Belfast recently. Al-Farzay was a notorious member of Hezbollah and Ralf himself had tangled with Andrei Vikodin before. Now this new guy Thompson shows up and he's suddenly connected to the first three psychopaths. He couldn't help but wonder whether or not this new assignment might finally be the one to do him in. Ralf was used to playing the odds, but perhaps, these odds could be a little too much for the cagey mercenary veteran and his crack partners. It was definitely something he was going to lose sleep over. 


End file.
